


parenthetical

by bluecheeked



Series: tenfold, threefold [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, College, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Smut, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unresolved Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24385669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecheeked/pseuds/bluecheeked
Summary: Loving Mark isn't the hard part--it's everything else that's impossible. Because no matter how quiet their hands are and how low they keep their voices, there's going to be anafter.But Donghyuck looks at Mark in that light, and it's oh-so-easy to forget about the world on the other side of the wall.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Series: tenfold, threefold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760860
Comments: 37
Kudos: 272





	parenthetical

**Author's Note:**

> oh, jeez. i am sorry.

“They can’t know.” 

This is one of the first things Donghyuck tells Mark Lee after they sleep together for the first time. 

“They can’t know,” Mark Lee agrees, sitting up and pulling his shirt on. His skin looks silver in the hazy blue light of the evening. Donghyuck’s knees hurt from the volleyball game, and his lower back hurts because he and Mark slept together, and oh god, oh god,  _they can’t know_ or his life will end. 

There’s a faint red mark just beneath Mark’s collarbone. Donghyuck doesn’t even  _like_ giving hickeys that much, but Mark had breathed Donghyuck’s name into his neck and hitched his leg higher, Donghyuck’s knee against Mark’s rib cage, Mark’s hand on Donghyuck’s thigh, and he’d been unable to resist. 

There should be no trace of tonight. No visible ones, at least. The burning want in Mark’s eyes has lifted slightly, and Donghyuck feels less like he’s going to be swallowed whole when he looks at him. It had been so hard to focus last night, with Mark’s eyes on the back of his neck, his face, his  _legs._

Donghyuck had called him out on it. Mark had turned pink, but he’d set his jaw, defiant, and said,  _yeah, and?_

And…they’d ended up here. In Donghyuck’s bed. And now it’s just before six and Donghyuck is thinking about his parents and their weekly check-ins and their constant, prying questions. About the way their faces wrinkle when he says  _queer_ or  _gay_ or  _weed_ or  _volleyball_ or  _humanities_ or literally anything, it feels like. 

Mark tracks down his underwear and his jeans. His belt clinks, and Donghyuck lies under the sheets and tries not to think. 

“See you around,” Mark says, and it sounds like a promise. He hesitates in the doorway for a second before he comes back to the bed and kisses Donghyuck again, one hand on the mattress and the other on Donghyuck’s face. 

Any regret Donghyuck feels burns away in the fire that reignites in his belly. Mark’s breath is stale, but Donghyuck licks into his mouth anyway, amazed at how easy it is already. There is no awkwardness. There is no regret. There’s only mutual understanding that this is how things are. That, and the quiet terror of being found out. 

_They can’t know,_ Donghyuck thinks fiercely.  _They can never know._

* * *

Mark is a good boy, too. Mark listens to his parents and goes on dates with nice girls with pretty hair in pre-med or law. 

But Mark also has a tattoo on his left shoulder blade from an e.e. cummings poem. Mark drinks too much and smokes weed and watches Donghyuck play volleyball with a focused, intense look on his face. Mark kisses boys—Mark kisses Donghyuck, even though his parents tell him homosexuality is a sin. 

“God doesn’t care if I’m gay,” Mark tells him a week later, their boba half-finished on the coffee table in front of them. “He cares if I’m a good person.” 

“And are you?” Donghyuck asks, idly sliding a socked foot up Mark’s shin from where he’s propped at the end of the couch. 

Mark takes a breath. “I’m trying to be.” 

“I think that’s enough, then,” Donghyuck says, even though he knows nothing about religion, has no idea how the scope of it looks to Mark and how it’s touched his life. 

Mark’s breath catches, and he puts a hand on Donghyuck’s foot. “Stop it.” 

Donghyuck’s focus immediately snaps to the point of contact, and he grins at the flush spreading across Mark’s cheeks. “I’m not doing anything,” he says quietly, even as he inches his foot higher, nudging Mark’s hipbone. “Keep going.” 

“I don’t remember what I was saying,” Mark says, flustered, as Donghyuck scoots forward, knees bending.

“You’re trying to be a good person,” Donghyuck reminds him casually, like he’s somehow oblivious to the glint in Mark’s eyes as he inches even closer, close enough to touch. Mark reaches out, almost subconsciously, but Donghyuck leans back, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes.” Mark’s eyes don’t leave Donghyuck’s, but he keeps his hands to himself, the message received. “I—I know I’m excluding my parents from my life, but I can’t— _Hyuck_ ,” he breaks off breathlessly, because Donghyuck’s just leaned forward to kiss the hollow of his throat, teeth scraping skin. But he pulls away when Mark stops. He really _is_ interested in what Mark has to say, it’s just—he’s so fucking _hot,_ and Donghyuck has literally had sex this good in his entire life, so it’s a bit of a struggle. He leans back on his hands, though, and waits for Mark to finish.

“They’d be so pissed,” Mark says, “if they saw me now. This is the worst thing I could do to them. This is like spitting at their feet and telling them to go fuck themselves.” 

The curse word is heavy, striking Donghyuck in the chest with unexpected force. 

He gets it. 

“Me too,” he says, and leans back in to kiss Mark with as much force as he can muster, which is a lot. Their teeth clack painfully, and Mark grabs Donghyuck by the thighs ( _predictable,_ Donghyuck thinks hazily) and pulls him closer so he’s practically on Mark’s lap. 

Donghyuck presses his thumbs into the divots above Mark’s hipbones and rolls his hips forward. Mark groans into his mouth—he’s already half-hard against Donghyuck’s thigh—and slides his tongue against Donghyuck's. Donghyuck scrambles to get closer—it's hard because they're on the couch, and Donghyuck is wearing jeans—but he makes it work, grinding against Mark again. It's uncomfortable, a little, but Mark’s cheeks are flushed bright pink, and when he pulls away to breathe the expression on his face makes it all worth it. 

“Hyuck,” Mark says, as Donghyuck fumbles for his belt, scooting back to make room for his hand. Mark’s hands fist in the back of his hoodie and his forehead falls against Donghyuck's shoulder as soon as Donghyuck gets a hand on him, stroking him slowly from base to tip. 

“Okay?” Donghyuck asks, mouth by Mark’s ear. He can almost hear Mark’s heartbeat, thundering beneath his skin. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, sounding a little lost, and lifts his hips slightly, desperately chasing friction. “Just—you're killing me, Hyuck—if you're gonna go—”

“Alright, jeez,” Donghyuck mutters. He tightens his grip a little, picks up the pace, and Mark moans into Donghyuck’s shoulder, back arching and hips stuttering. 

Donghyuck is familiar with Mark’s body by now—where to put his mouth, his hands, when to speed up or slow down. How to get the soft noises Mark is making now, his name a low rumble in Mark’s chest. 

There’s something terrifying about knowing all of this, if he really thinks about. So he tries not to, and instead focuses on the sound of Mark’s fast breathing. 

“Can't—not going to—don't wanna,” Mark pants. His breath is hot against Donghyuck’s neck. 

“Come on,” Donghyuck says, speeding up. Mark gasps, shuddering, and he leans away and tightens his grip in Donghyuck’s hoodie at the same time. “So good—you've been so good, this whole time,” he praises, and Mark's hips jerk again in response. 

“You're a little shit,” Mark groans, and relaxes into Donghyuck’s chest. 

Donghyuck gingerly pulls away, sliding off of Mark’s lap so he can go wash his hands. He almost regrets it—sex always ends their conversations. It's like they run out of things to say as soon as their mouths meet. 

So it's in relative silence that Mark puts himself back together while Donghyuck picks up his keys and his phone and zips up his jacket. The weather is changing, warming, but the mornings and evenings are still cold. 

“I'm going,” Donghyuck says, but because he can't help it (neither of them can, really—that should've been the first warning sign) leans over the back of the couch to kiss Mark, his mouth still pink and shiny. 

“You could stay, you know,” Mark offers. “Jeno won't be back for a while.”

“I know,” Donghyuck says. He still heads towards the door. “You could, too.” 

“I know,” Mark echoes. “See you around.” 

Once again, it's a promise. They should really stop making those, Donghyuck thinks. 

* * *

They don’t. And that should've been the second warning sign.

* * *

They start seeing each other regularly. Donghyuck will text at seven-thirty after dinner when he knows Mark has given up on his homework, when Jeno is out swimming or playing soccer or whatever sport he does—Donghyuck can’t remember, since he’s only met Jeno twice—and Mark will answer the door in his sweatpants and his hoodie (he rarely wears a shirt underneath, and Donghyuck likes to press his cold hands against the notches of Mark’s ribcage) and they’ll fold together immediately, easily, and end up in Mark’s bed. Donghyuck begins to know the smell of Mark’s laundry detergent as well as his own. 

Or Mark will show up at Donghyuck’s house at three in the afternoon on Thursday, when all of Donghyuck’s roommates are still at class. He knocks on the back door, scares both of Renjun’s cats, and follows Donghyuck up the creaky stairs to his tiny room in the corner. Sometimes Donghyuck’s bed is too messy, so Donghyuck will push Mark against the wall and kiss him hard, and they take turns slowly unraveling one another, hands and mouths quiet just in case a window is open or a roommate comes home early. 

Or sometimes—more recently—they’ll do neither. Mark puts a shirt on and will come meet Donghyuck in the library, squinting at textbooks with one of his hands on Donghyuck’s knee. Donghyuck will do his chemistry homework on Mark’s couch with his legs in Mark’s lap while Mark watches Netflix on Donghyuck’s computer, because Mark’s had broken after he’d pushed it off his bed to make room for Donghyuck. 

Today is one of those days. Mark has reheated the last of the fried rice his mother brought him when she last visited; Donghyuck is sitting at the dining table Jeno bought online for twenty bucks and wondering if his chemistry teacher is actually a sadist in disguise. None of them have taken their clothes off (yet), and Donghyuck briefly wonders if this is what it feels like to date Mark. Not that he actually _could_ —because Mark is a romantic with a set of rules and Donghyuck is a realist with his heart on his sleeve. 

The thought is a dangerous one, and he immediately regrets it. He tries to shake it off, but it’s too late—the idea has taken root in the darkest, quietest part of his mind, where he keeps his secrets and his grudges and the loves that will last a hundred years, tiny little flames that never grow but are also impossible to snuff out. 

Mark is picking all the peas out of Donghyuck’s fried rice with an idleness that tells Donghyuck it’s entirely subconscious. Donghyuck doesn’t like peas—he usually separates them out on his own and gives them all to Mark. 

He doesn’t know when Mark started doing it for him—didn’t even notice until now, really. Mark is starting to know him in all the ways he shouldn’t, in the ways he initially didn’t want to know Donghyuck. 

And Donghyuck is letting him, because talking is getting easier and easier and their silences more and more comfortable while Mark falls away from the methods that have kept him safe and protected.

Mark looks up from his phone, a spoonful of peas from Donghyuck’s plate halfway to his mouth. “You okay?” he asks, forehead creasing. 

Donghyuck shouldn’t be here. He should leave—probably for good, if he’s being honest. Before they bruise too badly, because after bruising comes the break. And the way the sunshine through the window lights on the ever-familiar planes of Mark’s face makes Donghyuck think that maybe he won’t be okay after Mark Lee breaks his heart. 

“I’m okay,” Donghyuck answers, and leans forward to kiss Mark lightly on the mouth. “I just need to take a break.” 

Mark leans into him without thinking, and Donghyuck can feel his smile when they kiss again. “Alright,” he says, pulling away long enough to push some of the hair off of Donghyuck’s forehead. “I thought you were gonna leave, for a second.” 

_I’m supposed to_ , Donghyuck thinks, but that thought fades quickly under the feeling of Mark’s hand on his face. 

“I’m not leaving,” he says instead, and Mark’s smile is so wide Donghyuck feels it in his gut. “I’m sitting right here.” 

* * *

And this is the third and final warning sign. Neither of them thinks to look for it. 

It damns them both. 

* * *

And this is where the story starts. Right at the end. 

* * *

Damnation comes in the form of Mark’s smile, just for Donghyuck, following the sin that is the long, lean muscle of Mark’s thigh and the hickey that Donghyuck puts on his ribcage. After it comes the peace, found in the moments that Donghyuck whispers to the poem inked into Mark’s skin, a respite from the battle that rages outside of Donghyuck’s bedroom, where the whole world resumes its chants of  _it cannot be, it cannot be._

They pretend like they can’t—like they  _won’t_ —break each other’s hearts. 

_This is the worst part,_ Donghyuck thinks every now and then, when Mark ignores his calls for the third day in a row or when Donghyuck pushes a little too far and Mark’s face crumples. When they fight and don’t make up, he thinks _this is rock bottom, and it’ll get better._ When he can’t find the guts to apologize and Mark gets his feelings hurt, he thinks,  _nothing can be worse than this._

But something is always worse—because they keep forgiving when they shouldn’t, and Mark ends up in Donghyuck’s bed by the end of the day and Donghyuck will turn up, again and again, at Mark’s doorstep. 

There’s a volleyball game on Wednesday night that they travel an hour to get to, only to lose when Donghyuck can’t get to the ball in time, the skin on his knees burning as he dives for it. There’s noise, a hand on his back. Lots of assurances that it’s okay, that it wasn’t his fault—but he can feel the iciness from some of his teammates.  _You did your best_ really means  _even your best wasn’t enough. You tried, and you still failed._

He’s the libero. It’s literally his _job_ to save the ball—he’s there to fill gaps in the defense. They need him to be quick, consistent— _good._

He hadn’t, and it had cost them the game. Now they’re teetering on the brink of being kicked out of the playoffs, their chance at the championship shrinking right in front of his eyes. 

Long story short: he feels like a worthless piece of shit by the time they unload back at their school, piling off the bus and shouldering bags. The coach reminds them about morning practice in two days. Nobody really bothers to say goodbye to Donghyuck, who stands in the cool spring night and tries not to cry. 

* * *

There are a hundred better places he could go that _isn’t_ Mark’s apartment, but he’s feeling particularly self-loathsome tonight, some part in him crying out for _comfort,_ to be _held,_ to feel  _safe_ and _worthy_ again. 

Renjun asks where he’s going when he turns around and leaves after tossing his stuff in his room and changing out of his uniform. 

“I’m going to a friend’s house,” Donghyuck says tightly, shoving his feet into his sneakers and zipping up his coat. 

“Will you be back?” Renjun asks carefully. 

Donghyuck exhales. “Maybe. Maybe not.” 

“Okay,” Renjun says, and Donghyuck knows he doesn’t like that answer one bit. He doesn’t push, though, and a tiny bit of gratitude wiggles its way through the stormy, heavy clouds over his heart. “Call me if you need anything.” 

“Yeah,” Donghyuck says. “Thank you.” 

It takes all of his willpower not to scream or cry on the walk over to Mark’s house. There’s a stinging, bitter feeling behind his eyes and in his nostrils, his skin prickling uncomfortably.

_Fuck them,_ Donghyuck thinks bitterly, and then feels guilty for it. It’s not his teammates’ fault—they have every right to be mad at him. But at the same time, he wishes they weren’t. That maybe they could understand that everyone makes mistakes—

_Not mistakes to cost the game,_ the nasty side of Donghyuck’s brain argues back.  _That’s not a mistake. That’s just proof that you’re worthless—maybe you_ shouldn’t _play, if you can’t even save a simple pass—_

“Shut up,” Donghyuck mumbles. It’s hard to get the words out through the lump in his throat.  _Shut up._

He texts Mark as he jogs up the stairs to the third floor. Mark texts a few question marks in response, but he still opens the door just as Donghyuck shows up, his eyes wide and concerned, his mouth pulled down at the corners.

“Donghyuck?” he asks. “Are you alright?” 

And that’s all it takes, really, to break through the last of Donghyuck’s crumbling emotional control. 

“No,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Can you kiss me?” 

Mark, still frowning, leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Donghyuck’s mouth. “Why are you crying?” 

Donghyuck touches his cheeks; they’re wet. He immediately hates himself a little more for not being stronger. Mark shouldn’t have to see him cry, shouldn’t have to fold him into a hug like he’s doing now, his chin on Donghyuck’s shoulder. He shouldn’t have to watch Donghyuck wipe his eyes pathetically or listen to him blabber on about his insecurities, an outpouring of emotional vulnerability and sticky, strange matters of the heart that  _must_ be making Mark uncomfortable, though Donghyuck can’t tell. 

And when it’s all said and done, Mark shouldn’t have to kiss Donghyuck long and slow and tell him, “don’t forget your own worth, Hyuck. You’re just as important as all the rest of them. And you’re important to me, too.” 

“No,” Donghyuck says again, and again, his voice breaks. “I’m not. I shouldn’t be.” 

Mark doesn’t look hurt, because he knows it’s the truth. Donghyuck  _shouldn’t_ be important to him, just like he  _shouldn’t_ be here on Mark’s couch, too comfortable. 

But this is another truth: “You are anyway,” Mark says, and he pulls Donghyuck into his arms. “That’s just how it is.” 

Donghyuck breathes out and feels something drop away from his shoulders. He runs gentle fingers through Mark’s hair and kisses the side of his neck. Mark shivers, but stays quiet as Donghyuck kisses his jaw, beneath this ear—that makes Mark’s breath hitch—and the slant of his cheek. 

“Hyuck,” Mark says, his thumbs rubbing circles right above Donghyuck’s hipbones. “Are you sure you want to—?” 

“I want to,” Donghyuck says. “But…but slow.” 

Mark’s eyebrows raise a little—in the past, it’s been the opposite.  _Faster_.  _Harder_.  _More, more, more._

This is different. Forbidden, almost. The way that Donghyuck slowly walks Mark back into his bedroom, the soft brush of Mark’s hands on his jaw and chest, the almost-reverent way Mark lifts Donghyuck’s shirt over his head—all of it feels like it belongs to someone else. 

“Can you top,” Donghyuck asks quietly as Mark pulls his own shirt off. “I’m tired. And I want you close.” 

“You’re affectionate today,” Mark comments, and Donghyuck just hums, looping his arms around Mark’s neck so he can kiss him. 

“Can you?” Donghyuck asks again, and Mark nods. “You’ll have to be careful, though. It’s been a while. Since—since the first time we hooked up.” _Over a month ago, now._

“No worries,” Mark assures him, twisting and reaching over to fumble around in his nightstand for lube and a condom. “We’ll go slow. Like you said.” 

“Yes,” Donghyuck says, choking back tears again. “Slow sounds nice.” 

Mark kisses Donghyuck’s sternum and then the hollow of his throat. There’s a moment of quiet—the click of a cap, and then Mark’s fingers, gentle and slow, just as promised. 

By the end of a couple minutes, Mark has all the nerve endings in Donghyuck’s body lit like fuses, smoldering deep in his blood. Donghyuck breathes through his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut, his back arching just a little when Mark’s fingers hit _just right._ The stretch is painful, but still familiar, and Mark slowly builds Donghyuck up, bit by bit. Carefully. Slowly. Like it matters, 

Outside, the rain starts. Donghyuck thinks about how he’s going to be better the next game, and then he’s pulled back into the moment because Mark takes his hand away, and Donghyuck can’t help the whine that escapes him at the emptiness.

“Shh, shh,” Mark says, leaning down to kiss him apologetically. “Sorry. Give me a second.” 

Donghyuck’s hand drifts down, chasing the fire Mark has lit in the pit of his stomach. He keeps his pace slow—he’s already so dangerously close, and it would be a shame to come before Mark even gets the damn condom on.

A second later, Mark’s hand replaces Donghyuck’s, warmer and more insistent. Donghyuck’s hips lift into his touch, knees falling open. He nudges Mark a little closer, a heel on the back of his thigh, and Mark stops. Donghyuck wrenches his eyes open and steadies Mark, hands on his waist, and waits. 

“I’m nervous,” Mark whispers. 

Donghyuck’s heart aches at the look on his face, wide and vulnerable. 

“I trust you,” Donghyuck says, just as hushed, trying not to break the soft, staticky quiet that’s fallen over both of them. He’s hard and impatient, every part of him aching, but he forces himself to wait. This is what he’d wanted, after all, and he’s going to be damn sure it’s what Mark wants too. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

“I want to,” Mark says, immediate. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first time.” 

A spike of pleasure shivers down Donghyuck’s spine and settles in his belly. 

“Then fuck me,” Donghyuck says, trying not to choke on the words. “Slow.”

“Slow,” Mark agrees. He takes a deep, deep breath in, and a second later, he’s pushing in. Donghyuck’s eyes water a little at the stretch, and it takes a bit of adjusting before he’s ready, thighs quivering and back aching already. 

“Okay?” Mark asks. His jaw is clenched, and Donghyuck knows he wants to move. 

“Okay,” Donghyuck says, and Mark rolls his hips forward, deep and slow, the way Donghyuck likes it best. 

It becomes clear within a matter of minutes that while Mark may be a little out of practice—they knock heads once—he’s  _good._ Donghyuck doesn’t know how he’s  _forgotten,_ but this time around, he’s making sure it sticks in his brain. 

He lifts his hips and Mark responds in kind, Donghyuck’s knees pressed into his sides, his arms around Mark’s shoulders. Mark moans into Donghyuck’s neck, his breath warm and hot on Donghyuck’s skin, and picks up the pace just a little. It’s enough to start pushing Donghyuck towards the edge again, static building in his mind and behind his knees. He scrabbles at Mark’s back, trying to keep his grip, the sounds he makes getting louder and higher-pitched with each thrust of Mark’s hips. Sweat shines on Mark’s chest with the effort, dampening the hair by his temples, his pupils blown out. He dips his head and bites  _hard_ at Donghyuck’s collarbone, hand coming between them, fumbling for a second before he gets his hand around Donghyuck. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Donghyuck breathes. “Mark—”

From there, it’s a matter of seconds—a well-timed twist of Mark’s wrist and the roll of his hips, reaching deep enough to set Donghyuck ablaze—and he comes apart under Mark, body spasming and his vision flickering in the corners. 

Mark starts to move back, but Donghyuck grabs him and pulls him closer, tucking Mark’s head against his shoulders and lifting his hips encouragingly, ignoring how his whole body sparks, sensitive verging on painful. “You’re doing so good,” he says. “Such a good boy. Come on.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Mark groans, and Donghyuck grits his teeth against the overstimulation, toes curling into the sheets. 

It doesn’t last long before Mark tenses and then relaxes against him, Donghyuck’s name soft on his lips. “Jesus Christ, Donghyuck,” he breathes. He pulls out slowly, Donghyuck wincing first at the ache and then at the sudden loss of contact, body jerking helplessly. Without Mark’s support, he finally goes boneless. There’s come on his chest and he’s sticky with sweat, but the blank static of deep satisfaction prevents him from doing anything about it. 

“That was—” 

“Intense?” Donghyuck mumbles, an arm slung over his face. He could fall asleep right here, right in the middle of the slightly damp sheets.

Mark laughs, his hand on Donghyuck’s thigh. “Well, that. I was gonna say _really nice._ ” 

“Nice,” Donghyuck says, amused. “That’s a first.” 

Mark pokes him in the side, and Donghyuck curls away from him, giggling. “You know what I mean,” he says, cheeks pinking. “Dumbass.”

“ _You’re_ the dumbass,” Donghyuck retorts, summoning enough energy to kick Mark in the hip, nearly knocking him from the bed. “This is why you’re not a poet. You can just say it was super hot, and that I was an awesome bottom.”

“It was super hot, and you were an awesome bottom,” Mark recites obediently. “There. Better?” 

“Better,” Donghyuck agrees. 

Silence falls over them, but unlike previous times, it doesn’t feel like their conversation’s been killed. The urge to leave is vague, and more habit than borne of necessity, like it has been in the past. 

“Can I stay?” Donghyuck asks quietly, and he hears Mark go still, his hand stopping the circles it had been making on Donghyuck’s leg. “Until I feel better?” 

What Donghyuck is really asking is,  _will you break your rules for me?_

Selfish.  _Selfish._ It’s going to wreck them both. 

But Mark can see right into the center of his heart, so he knows this already. And he also must see something else, because he sighs and kisses the slope of Donghyuck’s shoulder. “Yes,” he says. “You can stay until you feel better.” 

* * *

Sex, a shower, and eight hours of sleep do wonders for the sore feeling in Donghyuck’s heart. When he wakes up in the morning, the bitter self-loathing has eased, the grudge he’d been trying to hold evaporated like smoke in the sun. The teary-eyed ache he’d felt last night has been replaced by a more physical feeling, coiled in his lower back and hip flexors and knees. 

Mark sleeps with his window open, so Donghyuck’s face is a little cold as he stretches, snuggling down into the blankets. He curls closer to Mark, who is perpetually warm, even in sleep. He presses his nose to Mark’s shoulder. Mark groans and tries to roll away, trapped easily when Donghyuck throws an arm around his waist and pulls him back. 

“Morning,” Donghyuck whispers, propping his chin on Mark’s shoulder. He smells clean and soft, like the freshly-changed sheets and _boy,_ underneath it all. 

“Good morning, baby,” Mark replies, but it’s more a sigh than anything. The name at the end is an afterthought, idle and quiet, but it still makes Donghyuck feel like his heart is going to explode.

Donghyuck squeezes his eyes shut and presses a kiss to the knob at the top of Mark’s spine. “Say that again.”

“Good morning,” Mark says again, groggy. 

_You are so dumb,_ Donghyuck thinks, glowing with affection, and he almost says it, right then and there.  _You are_ so _dumb and I love you_ so _much._

He shuts his eyes tighter—against tears, now, that burn hot and bright in the corners of his eyes. The truth, in its lovely three words, should not sting this much. It should not be a pill for him to swallow—a bitter thing that Donghyuck’s body is not  _meant_ to swallow, because it has never learned how. Never  _needed_ to learn how. He burns those three words or he sets them free, but he never lets them  _sit_ there, like a heavy, acidic stone right on his solar plexus. 

But Mark looks at him with so much affection and touches him like he’s filled with sunlight, so Donghyuck tosses those words into the deep dark and hopes they’ll never emerge to see the day. He doesn’t want to lie, but he can’t tell the truth and stay here like this, sitting across from Mark when they go and get brunch, fifteen minutes later after their teeth are brushed. 

So he tries to drown his heart in little truths—how Mark likes his coffee, how Mark likes to be held at night, how Mark’s anxiety manifests in the tremors of his hands. Little truths like God, like family, like the ink on Mark’s shoulder blade: 

_)when what hugs stopping earth than silent is_

_more silent than_ more  _than much more is or_

_total sun oceaning than any this_

_tear jumping from each most least eye of star_

Little truths like the way Mark looks at him, sometimes, in the gathering of day or the falling of night, like he sees something in Donghyuck worth breaking all the rules for. Like Donghyuck is just as easily read as that tattoo, like Mark can make out some strange meaning in Donghyuck, a poem that he can read well.

Little truths, and one big one: Donghyuck feels understood. And that, he learns, is a very, very dangerous thing, and a truth that will not be drowned as easily as the rest. 

* * *

“Do you think our friends know?” Mark asks a week later as he and Donghyuck walk back from the gym after volleyball practice. Mark had sucked him off in the storage closet because there’s just something about Donghyuck and volleyball that practically turns him inside out. It’s a mystery, still, to Donghyuck, who knows he’s not ugly but can’t fathom the look in Mark’s eyes when he shows up, sweaty and disgusting after practice only to be shoved into the nearest private place practically jumped. 

Not that he minds, of course, but he’s starting to enjoy the  _after_ a little bit more, now, when they walk back to their respective homes. Mark’s got Donghyuck’s gym bag over his shoulder, and he talks about school and his dog, this new recipe he’d tried, and just as Donghyuck is relaxing into the sound of his voice, Mark asks that question.

“Our friends?” Donghyuck repeats, stopping in his tracks. Mark stops also and turns, frowning slightly. “I haven’t…told them, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not even really _out_ to any of them, so I don’t know why’d they think that. Why? Do you think they know?” 

Mark’s brow smooths out and he shrugs. “I don’t think so either,” he says. “We’ve been so careful. We both know what would happen if anybody knew.” 

The first thing that Mark had said to Donghyuck after that first night had been along those lines.  _They can’t know,_ Mark had said. Donghyuck agreed—and still does, to an extent. Except now there’s another layer to it.  _They can’t know, but I want them to._

For the billionth time, Donghyuck wonders what it would be like to date Mark Lee. To love him in the open, to hold his hand and kiss him goodbye. 

“They don’t know,” Donghyuck says with as much confidence as he can muster. “We’d never hear the end of it if they did.” 

* * *

“Are you seeing someone?” Renjun asks twenty-four hours later. “Like, regularly? Not just hooking up?” 

“The last girl I saw was almost a month ago,” Donghyuck says, which is true. It had been a miserable, short night that left them both sour and unsatisfied. “So no. I’m not seeing anyone.” Also true. Mostly. He _sees_ Mark pretty much every day—sometimes multiple times—for the last month, but he’s not _seeing_ him. Not in that way. Still, he’s cautiously euphoric, his heart so filled with joy that it’s hard to keep his mouth shut. He wants to tell Renjun and Johnny and Jaemin— _everyone,_ practically—about it. But the quiet terror of being _found out_ still hovers, slamming back into him every time he leaves Mark’s apartment or sees Mark to the door of his own house. “Why do you ask?” 

“You’re just…gone a lot,” Renjun says. “And you’re far too quiet about it, which means you’re either really depressed or you’ve got a secret.” 

“Maybe I’m just depressed,” Donghyuck says. “You know how it gets in the spring.” 

“I do,” Renjun agrees. “But you’ve been humming so much and smiling to yourself every time your phone buzzes—which is a lot, I can hear it through the wall sometimes—so I think it’s the latter.” 

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Donghyuck says again, though he wishes it were false. “You’d know about her if I was.” 

“What about if it were a boy?” Renjun asks carefully, and Donghyuck’s blood turns to ice. He tries not to let it show on his face, making a big show of staying calm. He puts his plate in the sink, and his hands don’t shake despite the fact that his heart is thundering his chest, so loudly Renjun must hear it. 

“It wouldn’t be a boy,” Donghyuck says slowly without turning around. “I wouldn’t date a boy, Renjun.” 

Renjun is quiet for a second, and Donghyuck can feel him thinking. Renjun is a truth-teller, through and through, and he’s astute on top of it. Donghyuck feels transparent, see-through, and desperately wishes he wasn’t. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Renjun says at last, and Donghyuck nods tightly. 

“Of course,” he says, turning the water on. The noise startles them both, and he can hear Renjun sigh behind him. 

“I mean it, Hyuck,” Renjun says. “I’m your best friend. I’ve got your back, no matter what.” 

“Thanks,” Donghyuck says. He means it, he really does—but he’s still terrified of someone knowing him like that. All the way through. Even the part that his parents and the heavy hand of societal norms have tried to crush for years. 

What is it about Mark, then, that makes everything feel possible? That makes the sky feel like it’s splitting open? That makes him feel worthwhile, a story worth more than five and a half words?  _I love you, Donghyuck, but—?_

For a fragile dream, it feels unusually warm and solid, nestled next to his heart. 

“But you look better, at least,” Renjun says. “Healthier.”

“What does that mean?” Donghyuck asks, and Renjun shrugs. 

“Just an observation,” Renjun says. “Color in your cheeks, less partying. I haven’t seen that group of people around recently, which makes me happy. They always trash the kitchen.” 

“Yeah, I’m not a huge fan of them either,” Donghyuck admits. “But they had their purpose.” 

“And now?” 

Donghyuck thinks of Mark. He’s always going on and on about his friends, how they’d love Donghyuck—if there was a way they could meet that wouldn’t immediately give both of them away. How they haven’t been caught yet by Jeno is a mystery to Donghyuck, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“And now—” _I can’t fall in love and tear myself apart at the same time,_ he wants to say. “Now I’m better, I guess.” 

“Good,” Renjun says. “I’m glad. I missed your smile.” 

Donghyuck offers him one now, small and tentative. “You’re a good friend, Renjun.” 

“Don’t forget it,” Renjun threatens, though there’s a smile on his face as well. “We’re all looking out for you, Donghyuck.” 

* * *

A month, Donghyuck thinks, is far too long for anything to go on. 

Even the good things.  _Especially_ the good things, and especially Mark Lee. 

* * *

The pain that the end of the end causes him is exponential. None, at first, and then in the span of twenty minutes, some of the worst he’s ever felt in his life. 

It starts with volleyball and a Thursday evening. Mark is waiting for him after the game, and his expression is proud and impressed and maybe a little bit in love, if Donghyuck is being honest. 

“You’re so damn good,” Mark says. Donghyuck, already glowing from their victory, feels brighter. Hands rain down on his back as the rest of his teammates filter out from the gym. 

“You walking back with your boyfriend?” one of them asks, and Donghyuck nods before he can process it. Mark’s hand freezes where it rests casually, comfortably on the small of his back, and Donghyuck steps away and crosses his arms self-consciously. But the teammate is already gone, because he doesn’t give a damn if Donghyuck’s gay—he gives a damn if they  _win._ Which they did. And Donghyuck could be seven feet tall and orange and his teammates wouldn’t care, as long as he wasn’t a dick to the new guys and made his saves and showed up to practice. Straightforward. Simple. 

_Straightforward. Simple._ Oh, how Donghyuck wishes he and Mark could be just that.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mark suggests. “I have weed, if you want. We could watch a movie, too—or I know a couple of friends who are having a thing, if you feel like going out—” 

“I want _you_ ,” Donghyuck says, turning. Mark stops mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly. His hand goes to Donghyuck’s waist briefly, and Donghyuck breathes out. “Please?”

“You’ve got me,” Mark assures him, and warmth shoots down Donghyuck’s spine. “My place?” 

“Yes,” Donghyuck says. 

They take the bus, and Mark holds Donghyuck’s hand under his gym bag, pressed together amongst the last of the rush-hour traffic. Nobody even glances their way, and Donghyuck gets brave enough to put his head on Mark’s shoulder. He watches the setting sun glint off the cars that pass them, the squeak-lurch of the bus as they pull away from the curb. They pass by the dorms, some administrative buildings, a couple restaurants. They don’t say anything much, but it’s comfortable.  _Mark Lee, my boyfriend,_ Donghyuck tries out in his mind, and wants to cry. Mark grips his hand a little tighter, like he can feel the lump in Donghyuck’s throat, the tiny pebble lodged between his ribs, making it hard to breathe. 

The melancholy, however, stokes the embers in Donghyuck’s belly, and there’s something desperate about the way Mark kisses him, hands under his shirt, on his hips. Mark slides his tongue against Donghyuck’s and bites down on his lower lip and says  _fuck_ in that low, staggering way of his, pins Donghyuck to the wall and puts a thigh between Donghyuck’s knees, presses his fingers into the spaces between Donghyuck’s ribs so carefully Donghyuck will remember the way his hands feel even after the warmth of his body fades. 

It’s funny. When Donghyuck first met him, he wouldn’t have thought Mark was capable of song lyrics or shoulder tattoos. There’s no way a boy with a face like  _that_ could talk about God and the springtime and all one hundred of his dreams with stars in his eyes, like he can see something intangible and unknown to Donghyuck. There’s no way a boy with hands like  _those_ could text with parenthesis and give each kiss like it’s special, like there is a future and a forever somewhere out there for them. 

They barely make it to the bed, Donghyuck on top, Mark’s hands on his hips, his ass, his thighs—always his thighs,  _that’s_ going to leave a bruise, and so is that—and Mark lets Donghyuck ride him, even though it hurts his back because something is fucked up with a muscle or a tendon, Donghyuck doesn’t remember. Donghyuck’s calves twang tiredly and his whole body strains with the effort, but he and Mark find a rhythm so quickly it’s a little terrifying. 

“You’re too good to me,” Donghyuck says later, after, running his fingers through Mark’s hair. 

Mark laughs. “You deserve it.” 

“I do not,” Donghyuck argues, and they both know that’s a little true, at least. Donghyuck is not the kind of boy Mark should break all his rules for. 

“I’m sort of hungry,” Mark says after a minute. “Want something?” 

“Mm, I’ll get up and get it,” Donghyuck says. “I don’t wanna get crumbs in your bed.” 

“My bed’s seen a lot worse than crumbs,” Mark points out, raising an eyebrow, and Donghyuck rolls his eyes, shoving at Mark’s shoulders. 

“Dumbass,” Donghyuck says without any malice. Mark laughs again and pinches the skin beneath Donghyuck’s chin before rolling off his bed, fishing around on the ground for his boxers. Donghyuck grabs his own underwear and one of Mark’s shirts—his is a little gross—and follows Mark into the kitchen, pinning him against the counter and kissing him soundly. 

“What is _up_ with you,” Mark says in the half-second when their mouths are separated. Donghyuck giggles and kisses him again. “Was that not enough for you? Was the sacrifice of my lumbar spine not enough?” 

“It was great,” Donghyuck promises, winding his arms around Mark’s waist. “But I saw you in this light and I had to kiss you again.” 

Mark looks at him for a long, long moment—so long that the microwave with his ramen beeps, then stops. Donghyuck’s breath gathers in his chest, and he’s afraid he’s just crossed a line.  _Too honest?_

“That is the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said,” Mark says at last, but there’s a smile threatening the corners of his mouth. 

“You liked it,” Donghyuck teases. 

“It was _shit_ ,” Mark emphasizes. “You do realize this isn’t a book, right? Or a movie?” 

“Sure,” Donghyuck agrees, “but that’s not gonna stop me.” 

“Clearly,” Mark says, and Donghyuck leans in to kiss the smile that finally spreads across his face. 

“You liked it,” Donghyuck repeats when they separate. 

“Yeah,” Mark admits. “I did. I liked it a lot.” He reaches up to cup Donghyuck’s face, running a tender thumb along Donghyuck’s cheekbone. 

“Your ramen,” Donghyuck whispers, turning his head to kiss Mark’s palm. 

“What about it?” 

“It’s getting cold.” 

“Mm,” Mark says, but he doesn’t move as Donghyuck kisses him again, slower, breathing him in. Mark sighs, relaxing into him, reaching behind him to prop himself up on the counter, moving his knees apart so Donghyuck can stand between them, a perfect fit, truer than truth. 

The moment shatters when the glass does. They startle apart—Mark bangs his head on the cabinet, and Donghyuck trips over his own feet and bites his tongue. A woman he sort of recognizes is standing in the doorway, her expression frozen in the worst way, her hands empty and outstretched—there’s the shattered dish on the ground, a mess of rice and chicken and vegetables. Behind her, there’s Jeno, his keys in the door, his face also frozen—but in a less terrible way. 

“Mom,” Mark says, stunned. “I didn’t—I didn’t know you were coming.” 

Donghyuck realizes  _that’s_ how he knows her face—because it’s the same as Mark’s, down to the dimple and the set of her brow.

“I thought I would surprise you,” Mark’s mother says blankly. She still doesn’t move. Donghyuck feels like he’s going to be sick, nausea pushing awfully at his sides. “What is—what is all of this?” 

“Nothing,” Mark says quickly, the word cracking through the air and cleaving Donghyuck in two. “He’s just—he’s not anybody.” 

“You’re not—” 

“He’s  _nobody,_ ” Mark repeats, and Donghyuck really thinks he’s going to vomit. There’s an awful creaking sound from somewhere deep inside of him, and he realizes it’s his breathing, raspy and thin. His fingers tingle, and he slowly edges towards the pile of clothing that sits just outside of Mark’s room, the bag on the table. There are a couple books of his, a hoodie he’d left here last week. Things, things, so many things. So many pieces. 

Donghyuck is out of the door and gone without a word to anybody as soon as his pants are on. Jeno gives him an apologetic, guilty look, and Donghyuck can’t even muster up the energy to be mad at him. 

What had Mark said to him?  _Nobody can know._ Except now they did, and it is over. 

What good is a heart cleaved in two? What good is a boy who can only fuck up and cry about the mess he’s made? What good is a realist when his heart is on his sleeve, and what good is a set of rules to a romantic? 

_Very little,_ Donghyuck thinks to himself, tears falling hot and fast the second the warm night air touches his cheeks.  _Very little good at all._

* * *

There were all those warning signs, too. Ones he saw perfectly clear and decided to ignore. There’s nobody to blame here but them. 

* * *

_Oh god, oh god, it hurts,_ Donghyuck thinks, clutching at his sides. The pieces tremble and threaten to split. His mind calls for a mouth and a tongue and his bones yearn for a boy who started becoming a home. He can give either of them what they want, so he cries and tries to remember how to breathe. 

* * *

Renjun rubs his back and Donghyuck tells him everything from start to finish. Everybody already knows, mostly. Mark Lee and the boy in his kitchen, his mother and the broken dish of fried rice, Jeno in the hallway, an accidental harbinger. 

A week goes past. The second-string libero finally gets some play. Some of his teammates get mad when he fucks up over and over again. Others look at him with sympathy that is too heavy to bear, so he leaves. 

The friends Donghyuck doesn’t really like come over again. They trash the kitchen, and Renjun lets them, though his lips are pursed with worry. 

Donghyuck stays out late and tries to chase the bad dreams and the heartache away.  _Just let it go,_ people tell him.  _Just let him go. He was a one-night stand, right? Then what’s the big deal?_

Mark Lee was, then, without a doubt, the longest, most complicated one-night-stand he’s ever had in his life. 

He misses Mark. Of course he does. With every part of him, a physical ache in his teeth and behind his eyes that he tries to drown in soju and beer, in other faces and music that makes his head hurt. It works—it works until the party’s over, and Donghyuck sits on the curb with his head in his hands, listening to people vomit and cry and call Ubers.

Someone sits down next to him. His stomach twists when he recognizes those sneakers, and those socks too, because they were once his. 

He doesn’t raise his head from his hands. The ground tilts, slides, and Donghyuck’s wondering if he’s dreaming. 

Mark Lee doesn’t apologize. Donghyuck doesn’t expect him to, honestly. He _is_ a nobody. Or, he was supposed to be.  _Should’ve_ been. They’d been caught by his _mother,_ and Donghyuck cannot fathom the degree to which Mark’s life has changed since then. Warped under misunderstanding and hatred and tears, maybe a hand raised. Promises must’ve been made, apologies— _it was an accident, I’m not like that, it won’t happen again._

“They think you go to another school,” Mark says quietly. “You’re safe here, still. They’re not gonna come looking for you.” 

Donghyuck breathes out. “Okay.”

Another long, aching moment of silence. Mark is making it worse by sitting here, reminding Donghyuck about the way he drums his fingers when he’s thinking, trembling and anxious.

There’s a gentle, tentative hand on his back. Donghyuck sits up slowly, and looking at Mark is like looking at a mirror—too pale, chapped and worn-down at the corners. 

“I knew this was gonna happen,” Donghyuck admits quietly. “Look at us.” 

“Fucked-up,” Mark agrees, hollow. “It’s fucked-up.” 

“Did you promise them you weren’t gay?” Donghyuck asks. 

Mark winces at the word. Donghyuck hadn’t meant it for it to come out that sharp, but doesn’t regret it. 

“That’s a yes, then?” 

Mark swallows and nods. Donghyuck, because he’s self-destructive and knows this is the last chance he’ll ever get, puts his hand on Mark’s cheek. 

Mark leans into it, and Donghyuck watches the tears that gather on his lashes. His lips are dry and his pulse flutters weakly under Donghyuck’s fingertips, fragile and light as a bird. 

“I’m dating this girl,” Mark whispers, and Donghyuck pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. “She’s…she’s nice.” 

“That’s good,” Donghyuck answers. A car passes them, its headlights throwing Mark’s face into sharp relief for a half-second before they slip back into early-morning darkness. “You deserve nice.” 

Mark opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, and shuts it again. 

“I love you,” Donghyuck says. “It ruined us both.” 

“It’ll be okay,” Mark replies. “People aren’t ruined forever.” 

_I might be,_ Donghyuck thinks. _Just a little part of me. That part of you, part of me._ “If you say so.” 

Mark nods and gets to his feet, brushing his pants off. Donghyuck turns his face to the sky. The moon is almost full tonight, bright enough to hurt his eyes. 

“That first time I saw you in the gym,” Mark says, “I don’t think I wanted anything as badly as I wanted you.” 

“Wanted to fuck me, you mean.” 

“No,” Mark disagrees. “Not like that.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. Donghyuck doesn’t push. He wouldn’t be able to take it, and besides—it’s not in his right to ask anymore. 

Eventually, Mark sighs. “Alright. My cab’s here.” 

“See you,” Donghyuck offers, without any real feeling. 

“See you,” Mark echoes. Donghyuck watches him go—one step, two steps. Then he pauses and turns, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“For the record,” he says, just loud enough for Donghyuck to hear, “I don’t really like peas either.” 

* * *

It’s funny how these things turn out, Donghyuck thinks. Effort becomes subconscious, and we fall in love with people that are right for us despite everything we may think. And we ruin it anyway.

He listens to music that makes him cry and thinks about times in the gym and in bed with the window open and hopes that one day, hearing that one e.e. cummings poem won’t make him feel like the world is blue and tilting sideways. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is not the end this is in fact going to be three parts and this is just the middle  
> there is still a before and an after there is still more to tell
> 
> [this](https://www.americanpoems.com/poets/eecummings/when-what-hugs-stopping-earth-than-silent-is-16/) is the poem mark has tattooed!


End file.
